


all that harmony of leaves

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, M/M, Sirens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24450484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: Patrick's small and shy, but he's powerful, and this neutered bloodsucker isn't going to treat him as anything less.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Spike
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	all that harmony of leaves

**Author's Note:**

> Clearing out the backlog. Technically an alternate scene to the Buffy crossover fic _until the sun went down_. Really just a reason for Spike to ride my favorite bike.

Patrick tugs at the sleeves of his jacket and looks up at the darkening sky. He's been at the Summers house all day, scanning book after book after book for answers. Failure, it seems, is always an option.

He just barely remembers the way to Xander's basement- places have all began to look similar to him, and Sunnydale is as small town as anywhere else- and he's got a weird feeling about going there without Xander, even though he has permission. He's not looking forward to seeing Spike- cocky jackass- and he considers heading back to the Summers’ house- to Pete and Joe and Andy- but the wards really are for the best, and he's already made it to the concrete steps, anyway.

The wards. Patrick looks over his shoulder, scanning the sky for the demon that's been chasing him. So far, he's free and clear. Patrick places hand on the wooden doorframe as he unlocks it and hisses, yanking his singed fingertips back. He's only a halfblood, but the spell is strong. He hopes it's strong enough to keep him safe for another night, at least.

Spike is on the couch, boots on the coffee table, watching Passions. Patrick curls his lip. What a waste of a vampire. Patrick locks up, ignoring Spike's cool gaze on his back, and hangs his jacket on the rack, pulling the little magic book from his pocket. He may as well research while he's got some down time.

"Have fun with the white hats?" Spike asks, a thick drawl to his voice. Patrick ignores him, fingers going tight around the ancient cover of the book in his hands. "No? What a pity."

"Are you always this annoying, or am I special?" Patrick curls up on the big red chair Xander had slept on the night before, staring resolutely at the television. He won't give Spike the satisfaction. He won't.

"You're a right treat." Spike says, leering. It's infuriating enough to make Patrick's skin buzz.

"Are you pulling my pigtails?" He asks through clenched teeth. "I thought you were a century too old for that."

"Charming," Spike says. "For you, I'll play schoolboy any day."

And that. Well, that kind of does it.

Patrick hums, low and deep in his chest, and Spike's eyes go glassy. Demons are so easy.

Patrick drops his feet to the floor, thighs falling open. He feels shameless and raw. Like Pete, maybe. He's never exploited his gift so blatantly, and it feels like magic pouring out of him in waves, sheer power at his fingertips.

He sings a line of Homesick and Spike drops to his knees in the middle of the floor, blood red overshirt fluttering open. He's gorgeous, and Patrick's got something about lessons running free in the back of his head. He's small and shy, but he's powerful, and this neutered bloodsucker isn't going to treat him as anything less.

Spike's bloodless hands touch his legs tentatively, long fingers on denim. Patrick can feel the chill down to his bones. He sings a diddy about snow, just because he can. He thinks if Spike could talk, he'd insult him. Patrick smirks and cants his hips.

One pale hand slides up his jeans, fingers sprawling wide against his thigh. Spike's still staring at him, open, waiting for instructions. Patrick hums an open your mind, open your mouth, and laughs along to the melody. He can hear music in the air, riding over the sounds of Spike's knees moving forward on the carpet.

He's not really telling Spike what to do, not giving him the order to slip his cold fingers under the hem of his shirt, not forcing him to press his mouth to the top of his knee. He's just. Suggesting. Letting him know that it's good to touch, to want to touch. He's not really giving him a choice, but the finesse is all Spike.

Spike's hands go for his belt, deft little fingers working it open quickly. His hair is stiff with gel, and Patrick spends long moments breaking apart the strands as Spike worms his hands into Patrick's jeans, tugging them down to Patrick's bent knees. His eyes are narrowed, the sharpness of his teeth fading back and forth from human to vampire. Patrick sings Darling Nikki. If feels appropriate.

Spike splits the slit of Patrick's boxers open with his thumbs, massaging the skin below with solid pressure. Patrick's only half-hard, still angry and a little scared, but Spike's eyes are an incredible shade of blue, and he's got a century worth of experience under his belt. This could be fantastic.

Spike's mouth is like ice. Patrick hisses, his song cutting off. The haze in Spike's eyes clears for a moment, and Patrick scrambles to pick it back up. Now, with his growing hard-on between those vicious set of fangs, is not the time for Spike to regain his free will.

The fingers around his hips have gone lukewarm, stealing his body heat away from him. They're squeezing tight- too tight, Spike fighting back- and Patrick presses into it. The pain blisters under his skin, sharp and good and dangerous like it never is with Pete.

Spike licks a slow line up Patrick's cock, his pale lips wrapping around the head when he reaches it. Patrick can feel the scrape of his incisors at either side of him, and it sends a flutter of excitement up into his chest. He rocks up into it, the head of his dick tapping against the roof of Spike's mouth.

It's nice, getting head from someone who doesn't need to breathe. Spike sucks him down to the root, pointed nose nuzzling through the mess of curls struggling to free themselves from Patrick's boxers. Patrick curls his fingers in Spike's hair, the crunch of the gel like a gunshot under his booming voice. He's not singing words anymore. The words don't matter anyway, not when he's got full control of Spike's mind.

When Patrick fucks up into Spike's mouth, Spike looks up at him through his dark eyelashes, glaring. Patrick laughs, knuckles going white enough to match the curls wrapped around his fingers. He pulls Spike's head in and pushes his hips up and marks tempo with the pulsing swallows of Spike's cool throat.

Spike's nails dig into his sides, scratching down. He'll have marks to hide. Patrick tips his head back, the cushion of the chair thin under his skull, and watches the way Spike's adams apple bobs as he swallows. A thick line of drool drips from the corner of his mouth, down over the sharp jut of his chin.

There's heat building up in Patrick's gut, his balls drawing up. He's going to come, and it's going to be fantastic. He feels powerful. Strong. He can do anything he wants an no one can tell him otherwise. Patrick jerks Spike's head down and holds him there, coming down Spike's throat in hot pulses. It feels like he's imploding, crashing down into himself in waves.

When he lets Spike go, he stops singing. Spike looks like he's been suckerpunched, his mouth red and wet, eyes clearing up. Patrick tucks himself back into his jeans and waits for Spike to come back to himself.

"That was fighting dirty," Spike says, wiping a hand over his mouth. He rises to his feet, and Patrick can see the curl of his fists. A thin drizzle of diluted blood slides down his palms.

"For me you'll play schoolboy, right?" Patrick says smugly. He stretches, shirt riding up his belly. He feels like curling up and napping, satisfied with himself in a terrible, sick way. Spike sneers. As he opens his mouth to speak, the door flies open and Xander bursts in, a box of pizza in his hands.

"Dinner has arrived," he announces, depositing the box on the coffee table. "So, how'd you two get along?" Patrick smiles up at Spike and raises his eyebrows.

"Like best mates," Spike answers. He doesn't belittle Patrick again.


End file.
